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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26787490">His Bird</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcus_the_great/pseuds/marcus_the_great'>marcus_the_great</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Legend of Zelda &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Flower Language, Flowers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Language of Flowers, Larkspur - Freeform, Marigold - Freeform, Oneshot, bird-of-paradise, happy birthday suri</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:47:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26787490</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcus_the_great/pseuds/marcus_the_great</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
      <p>happy birthday suri! ~ hope you enjoy!</p>
    </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Legend &amp; Warriors (Linked Universe), Legend (Linked Universe)/Marin (Legend of Zelda), Link/Marin (Legend of Zelda), Marin (Legend of Zelda) &amp; Warriors (Linked Universe)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>His Bird</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_of_Dreams/gifts">Dragon_of_Dreams</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>happy birthday suri! ~ hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I find him, knees to his chest, next to a patch of marigolds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take a few paces closer, although he doesn’t seem to notice. His left hand reaches out, fingers touching a bud, then digging into the loose soil. It’s an odd change in him. He isn’t somber or reflective. He’s mostly volatile, tossing insults around like candy. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s a snarky lil’ bastard, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I think, a smirk forming on my face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe I should check on him. This guy doesn’t sit in the dirt picking flowers. The ground is spongy under the soles of my boots as I pad over to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s been nothing, no reaction. Not even the quirk of his ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I fall into a crouch, “I didn’t know you were a gardener.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He attempts to hide the flinch of his body, throwing a severe hunch into his shoulders. I can practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear</span>
  </em>
  <span> his eyes as they narrow into slits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want philanderer?” He spits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I let loose a chuckle. I’ll give him that, we both seem to have a thorough understanding of one another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s a wild patch of barberries, bad tempered, spiny and unyielding. Poisonous too. But there’s something else I can’t quite put my finger on. Something deeper than his inclination for frustration. A deeper emotion, something he loathes to dredge up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As for me, I’m a larkspur, openly inviting. Colorful. A philanderer I may be, drawing others in with an open heart. Waiting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem out of it,” I explain, my voice losing the adopted lighthearted lilt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I angle my head towards him. He shrugs, eyes still on the dirt. “Just been thinking s’all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About</span>
  <em>
    <span> her</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He becomes a statue- a </span>
  <em>
    <span>blushing </span>
  </em>
  <span>statue. His cheeks are flared red, as red as a beetroot. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hit the nail on the head.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I can feel a grin spreading on my face, and I lean into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” he begins, stumbles, suppresses a growl, tries again, “It’s pointless to try and lie, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ya. Sorry lover boy.” I snigger quickly. “Look… I won’t tell, knight’s honor, eh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks so sad, I realize, my good humor dissolving on my tongue. His eyes are watery and red, but he’s got a nasty grin, trying to combat the tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just…” I watch his eyebrows cinch together. “I swear to Hylia if you say this outside of the two of us… I’ll skin you alive, I swear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter </span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span> it happened, the pain is still as fresh as if it’d just happened. I know the others will understand, at least pretend to, but they’ve all seemed to have moved on from their nightmares.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They haven’t.” I blurt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can feel his eyes snap up to my face, waiting for me to continue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re all hurting-” there’s a pause in my voice, I suck in some air, hating myself for what I’m about to say, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>we’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> all hurting. Can’t you see? The Champion is covered in scars, inside and out, he’s hurting too. The pirate is so young, but he’s already been through a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words seem to take on a life of their own, wrought in passion that I didn’t know I had- or at least never thought I’d portray. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I reach out a pluck up one of his prized marigolds, grabbing it from the root. “In a sense, we’re all flowers. To you, the others seem perfectly fine on the outside,” I hold onto the stem in one hand, using the other to feel the petals with the pads of my fingers, “but there’s hurt inside, in their roots, their stems, their leaves. It may not be visible to you, but they carry that with them. The Hero’s Spirit comes with baggage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should’ve been on the job description,” he mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Me? “I do too. The frontlines of war can be tough.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Very tough. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I remember, </span>
  <em>
    <span>It became so hard to tell a friend from a foe, to stop your sword, to cut off the adrenaline.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes a little time, but he coaxes out a little of the story. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’d been a girl, one he came to associate with ocean air, seagulls, powdery sand, hibiscuses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’d worn one behind her left ear,” he’d noted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hibiscus; large, waxy petals in bright colors, yellow pollen. It signified delicate beauty. Of course, most flowers were by nature delicate. Snapped stems, loose petals, uprooted from the soil. They were so vivacious and lively, yet as fragile as glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I soon learned that Marin wasn’t delicate. The way he described her isn’t something that can be relayed, even if verbatim. No one could replicate the way his eyes seemed to almost cloud over, as if thrown backwards into another time, back to their beach. Like the quintessential redhead, she had a certain fire to her. She led the charge in conversation, was direct, open, honest. A singer. A dreamer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She had such a....” he’d taken a few moments to find the right words, testing them out on his tongue, “a whimsy to her. I’d never met someone so open and trusting before, so kind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your Zelda?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No… no… nothing like Zelda.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is she? I’d like to meet her.” I had asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a stark change in him. His eyes dimmed, and I could practically see the blood draining from his face, a sort of claminess set in in its stead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s gone. That island she lived on? It was just a figment of some creature’s imagination. I’d woken up, soaked to the bone, cold, clinging on to my soggy raft. I’ve never been so confused.” His expression changed as he set his jaw, “That was it. I had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>warned</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yet I didn’t listen. I’ve forsaken them all, they didn’t deserve that. They didn’t deserve to end.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands had been absentmindedly one amongst the golden buds this whole time, now pulled taut into fists, tearing up stems, crushing petals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The marigolds. Guilt. My Zelda had been one to study, and that included flowers too. Even though I’d pretended to not pay attention back then, I remember every word. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Flowers have a language Link, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I recall interjecting some halfhearted retort, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and we just need to be willing to listen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She was right. The marigolds are manifestations of his guilt, the ones I’d jokingly remarked he’d “planted”. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amongst the tangle of stems and leaves, little golden heads hung. They were on the cusp of being top-heavy. The buds were laden with petals, some a bright yellow, others a sunburst orange; some were vermillion at one end, lightening to a hazy orange, and then gold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marigolds are wild, scruffy, golden buds hung heavy over a mess of leaves and scrub. The forlorn hero’s head was also heavy, almost perpendicular with the ground. He was a marigold too, a pink-headed candeula, weighed down by his remorse, trying to keep up the tough exterior.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In a moment of brotherly protection- a feeling that’s evaded me most of my life- I wrap an arm around his hunched shoulders. I pause a moment, gauge his reaction. He doesn’t jump away or retaliate, if anything, he seems to lean into my arms, subconsciously seeking warmth and solidarity. I gather my other arm around him as well, feeling out of place. I thought I’d known my relationship with my pink-haired counterpart. We trade remarks back and forth, let ourselves get infuriated by each others and the stupid things we do, the way we act. There was no place for comfort or confession. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry,” I let out in a pathetic whisper, “I can only imagine what that must’ve been like… but you can’t lose hope.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I continue, “If this girl really was so trusting, then why would she ever blame you? There was no fault made by you, I know that for a fact.” My voice raises into something of a command, direct and solemn, “She isn’t a hibiscus to you… she’s a strelitzia- your bird-of-paradise. She’ll always remain, faithful to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can feel another sob build within him, a shake in his chest, “Don’t lose hope, you’ll find her one day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then where is she?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid question</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I almost blurt out, biting my tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s a bird- isn’t she? She is out now, riding the wind, but one’s bird-of-paradise will always return.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s another question on his lips, I’m sure of it, hanging in the air between us. However, he relents, letting it fade into the warm afternoon. He gives a nod, terse at first, and then loosening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere out of my periphery, I hear him brushing off his hands, and then shift his arms so they meet around my back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” his voice is soft, low, but not undefeated. There’s hope, a small fire only beginning to build. I hope I set him on the right path, because in my heart of hearts I truly care- even though I’d be damned to ever relay that information aloud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, marigold.”</span>
</p>
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